


Misty Mountain Meetings

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Elves, First Meetings, Friendship, Orcs, Pre-Quest, Rivendell | Imladris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5841616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by a little scene from The Hobbit (movie).   Did Legolas and Aragorn meet before the events of Lord Of The Rings and if so, where and when?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misty Mountain Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> The characters, setting and main events of this tale were the creation of JRR Tolkien. This is a non-profit fanfic exploring his world.

From his perch high in the boughs of an ancient sycamore Legolas watched the grey clad old man striding down the road toward him. He remained still, waiting with the patience only an elf with centuries to live can muster. The last time his people had encountered Gandalf the wizard had resulted in the death of a dwarf king, the near total destruction of a town, the release of a dragon and a huge battle. Whilst Legolas had not spoken with the grey wizard personally he had experienced the mayhem first hand and was of little mind to renew the acquaintance. Hidden amongst the leaves the elf fully expected to remain unnoticed so he was vaguely annoyed when the tattered wonderer stopped right below him and spoke without looking up.

He was surprised however, by the good natured warmth in the aged voice that called up to him. “You are a long way from your father’s halls, Legolas Thranduilion.”

King Thranduil had instilled in his son a set of very good manners and, in spite of his initial reaction, Legolas confessed himself curious. So he stepped surefooted, from branch to branch, patting the trunk of the tree in thanks as he alighted at Gandalf’s side. “Good day to you Mithrandir.”

The ancient istari tipped his head in reply then leaned upon his staff. “What brings you onto this road alone?”

Legolas adopted a nonchalant air. “I decided it was past time to explore the world beyond the borders of my home.”

“Did you indeed? Then it is well that we met for I have travelled far and wide in these lands and have explored all its nooks and crannies. Perhaps I can advise you on your path.” The old wizard settled himself upon a log, waving Legolas to a seat at his side. Feeling a little trapped but now committed to the conversation Legolas obliged him.

Removing his wide brimmed hat Gandalf dropped it carelessly in the dust at his feet and leaned the tall staff against his shoulder. “If you travel south from here you will reach the Golden Wood where Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel rule. Yonder,” here he waved to his left, “the road will take you through the Misty Mountains to the valley of Rivendell and the House of Elrond. Had you a particular course in mind?”

Legolas laid down his bow and brought out a leaf wrapped package from the small pouch at his waist. Breaking off a piece of the golden cake within he offered the rest to Gandalf. “I had not. I have no kin in either of those places and I am actually considering exploring some of the lands of other races.”

Gandalf bit and chewed appreciatively. “Are you indeed? You have dwarves and men almost upon your doorstep. Why should you leave the comfort and safety of the Greenwood? You have only to travel to Lake Town or to Erebor to drink your fill of other races.”

Legolas realised he had been caught and smiled. It was too easy to forget that great age was merely a garment worn by the istari, like a warm cloak or a comfortable pair of boots. He nibbled at a corner of his half of the lembas. “My father and I have developed conflicting outlooks on life,” he replied frankly. “Since Smaug’s demise he and I have been at odds regarding our need for interaction with other races.” He shrugged. “His Majesty finally suggested that if I were so insistent upon mingling with mortals I should seek out some chieftain of the Dunadain that he heard tell of. He named him Arathorn.”

Gandalf shook his head. “Thranduil is a little out of touch but I suspect that comes as little surprise to either of us. Arathorn has been dead these eighteen years. Shot by orcs. His widow and their son, Aragorn, reside at present in the house of Elrond. Aragorn has been fostered there since his father’s death and goes by the name of Estel.”

“Hope? An interesting name for a child but why change his name at all?” 

Gandalf swallowed the last bite of Legolas’ bounty. “If I am honest I should not even have revealed that much to you. But if you decide upon Imladris as your goal perhaps Elrond will tell you” he replied with typical istari ambiguity.

Legolas chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Eighteen, you say. Then he is but a child. There is little service I could provide him.” He considered the road south.

Gandalf followed his gaze. “Imladris is a beautiful place and Elrond opens his home to all races so you would be able to explore their ways to your heart’s content. Perhaps he could make use of your bow in protecting his borders.” He paused to let that suggestion sink in and then added, “One thing I would note, however. Men come to adulthood much faster than elvenkind. Aragorn is twenty years old and also considered to be of an age to begin exploration of the world. Do not rule him out of your plans just yet.” Gandalf chuckled. “You may even discover yourselves to be kindred spirits.”

The conversation was apparently at and end for Gandalf brushed the crumbs from his beard and rose, with the not altogether convincing sigh of an ancient with creaky joints. “When you cross the mountains avoid taking shelter in any caves. Orcs and goblins have been multiplying once more in the caverns below. Elrond’s folk try to keep the numbers down but I fear they fight a losing battle. Your bow would be most useful in that task.”

Legolas stood, although with a little more alacrity. Taking up his bow once more he touched hand to breast in farewell to the istari. “Thank you for your advice Mithrandir.”

Gandalfs eyes twinkled as he turned to point with his staff at the mountain range in the distance. “Take the path that leads between those two peaks. There, beneath an overhang, you will see a cleft in the rocks. It is not easy to find but elven eyes should have little difficulty. That is one of the entrances to the valley.” He glanced up at the cloudless blue sky and sniffed. “And you had better set out swiftly. The weather is about to change.” With those words the grey pilgrim strode away south, humming a tune to himself.

For several moments Legolas gazed after him then turned about and made for the Misty Mountains and Imladris. For some reason he formed the impression that theirs had not been a meeting of chance on Gandalf’s part.

After a damp night spent under the scant protection of an overhanging rock Legolas was not in the best of moods as he attempted to navigate a steep path through thick fog. After a full day trekking through these conditions yesterday he was firmly of the opinion that “Misty” was an extreme understatement when referring to these mountains. The fog was so thick in places that, even with elven sight, finding the path was difficult and he back tracked twice having taken what appeared to be blind turnings. On the second occasion he spied a trail of orc boot prints leading into a cave and realised he had narrowly missed entering one of their dens. The sobering experience bred in him a renewed caution and he decided not to continue walking after dark.

Roused from his dreaming this morning by the drip of cold water on his neck he was dismayed to discover that the fog was even thicker than the day before. Whilst cold did not affect eldar physiognomy to any great extent Legolas was not averse to the comfort of dry clothes, a good fire and cooked food. At present his clothes were muddy and soaked, he had been living on lembas for several days, and he was beginning to find this exploration a little less exciting than he had at first anticipated. The notion that Gandalf had persuaded him to this road simply to bring him this discomfort began to nibble at the edges of his mind. 

There was so much moisture in the air that even the deepest breath did not seem to fill his lungs and the mossy rock was treacherously slick beneath his shoes. Mist swirled and drifted with the slightest breath of air, tricking the eye and hiding loose stones and potholes. Knowing there was a sheer drop to his left did nothing to ease his discomfort, even if he was spared a dizzying view of the chasm by this accursed all enveloping fog.

No wind blew or bird sang in this smotheringly white world so the echoing clatter of falling pebbles behind him was very clear and Legolas paused to listen more closely. When he detected no further sound he determined that his own passage must have dislodged something. It was as he took the next step that he sensed, rather than heard, the movement of air behind him. 

Ducking in sheer warrior instinct he was not too surprised to see an orc scimitar sweep above him and he spun about, dropping his bow and drawing long knives in one fluid movement. The keen edged blades met little resistance as he chopped the legs out from under his attacker and toppled the remains into the chasm. Orcs always hunt in packs however, and his first victim was quickly replaced. Legolas found himself hard pressed as every time he dispatched one another took its place immediately. His only good fortune was the narrowness of the path, which ensured they could only come at him one at a time. If they had another exit from their lair further up the trail, however, he would be surrounded with nowhere to retreat. He leapt to avoid the low swung blade of an orc who thought to copy Legolas’ now tried and tested move. The elf used both of his own blades to scissor off the foul creature’s head, even as his mind registered dispassionately that this would be the first one not to scream as it tumbled into the canyon.

Elves have great stamina but he could not fight at this pace forever and he began to seek an escape. Between each swing Legolas took a step backward, hoping that memory served him well and the hidden cleft Gandalf had mentioned would be just around the next bend. His reflexes had been honed by years of fighting the giant spiders that once invaded his homeland so he suddenly leaned far to the right to avoid a thrust which would surely have skewered him otherwise. Unfortunately that was when his foot slipped. Legolas recovered enough to avoid tumbling into the void but his current opponent grasped that moment of distraction to slip under his guard and deliver a wide gash across the elf’s chest. It seemed that orcs were capable of grinding a reasonably sharp edge to their weapons too.

Legolas hissed, jumping back and raising his knives at once. To acknowledge the pain was to die so he ruthlessly locked it away. Another step backward and he sensed a void to his left. But now he faced a dilemma. Was this the entrance to Imladris or to some orc den? He could not hold out for much longer on this narrow path against such a concerted attack but if he slipped through the opening would he find friend or foe or worse, a dead end? If it contained more orcs Legolas had no doubt that he would be fortunate if he was only killed. A dead end would be no better than his present position and if it was the entrance Gandalf had spoken of he could be leading the orcs right into Imladris. He had, as yet, seen no sign of any defence of the valley, other than concealment, and he had no intention of starting his acquaintance with the powerful Elrond of Imladris by arriving with a party of orcs in his train. Even as all these thoughts ran swiftly through his mind his knives, now gored black with orc blood, continued to instinctively slash and parry.

That was when someone grabbed his arm, yanking him into the dark opening just in time to avoid a hail of elven arrows from above. Dark figures pushed past him, out onto the path and Legolas spun to confront his new captors. But he did not find orcs, or even elves. Tall, lithe men with dark beards and piercing eyes pushed him deeper into what became a tunnel and behind him he heard the ringing of blades for a few moments and then the unmistakeable sound of a huge rock grinding into place. 

Suddenly the sound of battle was cut off and Legolas tried to look back. But the fog seemed to have followed him into the tunnel and blink as he may, he could no longer bring anything into focus. A man, slightly taller than the rest, tugged him on. “Come on. You cannot stop now. The poison will kill you soon.”

Poison? Despite the man’s injunction Legolas was finding it more and more difficult to put one foot in front of the other and he stopped in startled amazement when he heard the clang of both of his knives landing upon the floor. He looked down in confusion for he had not instructed his hands to release them and that was when he realised that he could no longer feel his hands. Suddenly even the stranger’s firm grip on his bicep was not enough to prevent Legolas sliding bonelessly to his knees.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders and he found himself face to face with his rescuer. Through the mist that still clouded his vision Legolas made out a face as yet young, although a man grown, with a dark beard and bedraggled hair. But it was the eyes that held the elf's attention. They were keen and elven grey. Legolas’ wonder deepened as the man spoke in perfectly accented Sindarin.

“Stand up. We must get you to Lord Elrond.” He shook his captive. “Stand up!”

Such command did the words carry that Legolas found his body responding without his conscious thought. He stood on wobbly legs and was ushered, half staggering, half carried, out into clear sunlight and birdsong. Not that he was able to give more than flinching acknowledgement to the change for the young man dragged him onward, down a steep, stepped path. Just when he decided he could stumble no further other hands and faces appeared, these elven. 

The young man’s voice came to him as though from a deep well. “He was alone and ambushed on the high pass, Adar. We could not get to him before the orcs attacked. I think he has just the one injury but it is clear the blade was edged with poison.”

Legolas found that he was remarkably unconcerned about injuries or poison as he watched the world drift away down a long dark tunnel. He felt himself being lifted. Then the tunnel closed in and he knew no more. 

His next awareness was of sound. The distant rumble of waterfalls, the rush of a powerful river, birdsong and distant elven voices raised in song. He inhaled, olfactory senses registering growing things, damp loam and rock, scents he recognised from home. That he was lying prone upon a very comfortable surface, luxuriously warm and dry did not escape him. But further concentration drew forth vague memories of pain and weakness. Legolas shifted his arms experimentally and was relieved to find that they responded to his instruction once more, although there was a stinging sensation across his chest. His questing hand found broad soft bandages and pain that drew a gasp from him.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Recognising the voice Legolas blinked, finally bringing into focus a large airy room and a figure seated in a chair at his bedside. It was his rescuer from the pass, although now clean shaven and elegantly clad in fine green velvet. Opening his mouth to speak Legolas was alarmed when he was able to produce only a squeak. The man grinned and, slipping a hand beneath the pillow, raised Legolas’ head enough to sip at the glass of water held to his lips. 

“Lord Elrond has stitched the wound and purged most of the poison from your system,” the young man advised. “You will be sore and may experience headaches for a few days but you will live.”

When he had consumed half the water Legolas tried his voice once more. “Thank you for your assistance. I am Legolas Thranduilion and I am in your debt.”

The edain’s eyes widened for a moment. “The prince of Mirkwood . . . or do you prefer Greenwood? What brings you to Imladris?”

“It is a long tale. But you still have me at a disadvantage. May I not know the name of my rescuer?”

“My apologies. “ The young man smiled again, touching hand to heart in greeting. “Well met, and on behalf of Lord Elrond, welcome Legolas, son of Thranduil. I am Est . . . I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

 

END


End file.
